Chapter 5
The day was bloody miserable with the Scottish rain at its most terrible. The rain came at them in torrents, lashing from all sides, leaving them drenched to the skin and chilled to the bone.
Reid clung to his horse, his body numbed through from the cold. Except for his back. The wounds Clara had tended to so carefully that morning felt as though they were being stabbed all over again.
For her part, Clara said nothing during their journey.
She did not complain as other lasses might.
Indeed, she did not so much as scowl or even glare malice in his direction for subjecting her to such dismal weather, rather than being within the dry, hallowed walls of the convent.
Nay, she remained under the cover of her cloak and kept the pace he’d set, never once faltering, no matter how the lightning flashed, or the thunder cracked.
In all this time that he’d wondered about Clara after seeing her at the market, when he’d known so little about her.
What he knew now caused his fascination to grow.
Her compassion, her unending patience. How she seemed so petite and delicate in his arms despite her mercenary’s skill with her daggers.
And the way she had been so innocent when he kissed her, so eager to return his affection.
It had been the tentative kiss she’d pressed to his mouth that made him recall his senses. She was meant for the convent. Not for him.
And it was just as well. He wouldn’t do as a husband. Especially not to a woman like her. If she were to wed, she deserved a man who could give her everything Reid had vowed a long time ago never to possess.
The rain intensified, and a flash of lightning was followed almost immediately by a crack of thunder that made the earth shudder. Clara’s mare reared up on its hindquarters, its front hooves stabbing frantically at the air.
“Clara,” Reid cried out as he urged his horse toward her. There wasn’t time to get to her, let alone an opportunity to take the reins of her steed and calm the beast.
By some miracle, she held on. She leaned her body forward against the mare’s powerful neck.
When the horse’s front hooves returned to the sodden earth, Clara was once more upright in her saddle.
Her hood had been thrown backward, her dark hair plastered to her face with rainwater, her eyes wide with what she had just endured.
“We need to find shelter,” he said over the roar of the storm.
She did not protest and instead nodded, urging her horse to follow his once more.
It wasn’t simply that she had nearly fallen or that the lightning was too close for comfort. It was also that the mud was too deep and would freeze over as soon as the sun began to set. Already, the chill of dusk was beginning to settle in the air.
Reid led them to a nearby village, if the collection of rundown cottages and shops could be referred to as such, and found the solitary inn.
Every man from the village seemed to have congregated in the tavern's smoky main room, their voices boisterous in a collective rumble, and the air hot and thick with so many people pressed into one room.
The tavern owner was not easily found, and when Reid located him, the man was bleary-eyed with drink.
“Two rooms,” Reid said.
The man gave a long, slow blink. “We’ve only got the one.”
Reid flicked a glance at Clara at his side. “We require two.”
“Well, we’ve got one,” the man repeated with a little smile as though he was laughing at his private jest.
Clara’s face remained impassive, but Reid’s heart thudded hard.
They’d slept near one another in the cave when he’d been injured and again last night out in the open.
But in the close confines of a room, the proximity seemed inappropriately intimate.
Especially for a woman who was intending to become a nun.
Reid turned a desperate glance to the tavern owner.
The old man shrugged his bulky shoulders. “There’s always the stable.”
“Aye,” Reid readily replied. “I’ll take the stable. Give the lass the room.”
“Nay.” Clara reached for his hand and squeezed it as if there were some secret between them. “My husband and I will take the room, please.” She met Reid’s eyes with a pointed look.
My husband.
He should have flinched at those words. Any other woman suggesting they were wed would have made him balk.
Except, the way she said it filled him with an unnatural fascination as his thoughts flirted with the idea of what it would be like to be her husband truly.
The tavern owner squinted, his eyes darting back and forth between them. “Yer husband?”
“We quarreled and he assumed I was cross with him,” she said in a halting voice. “I’m not. Obviously. Or I wouldn’t want to…ehm…share a room. With him.”
She really was meant to be a nun.
She was a terrible liar.
Even the drunk man appeared largely unconvinced, his brow screwed up to one side.
“Ye’re no’ cross with me?” Reid asked, turning to her.
Clara blinked in surprise. “Of course not.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” He reached out, stroking her cold, damp cheek with a lover’s touch. Beneath his fingers, her skin went pink with a blush. “I was worried I’d upset ye.”
She shook her head.
He leaned over her and pressed his lips to her fair brow.
His ploy worked as the innkeeper dropped his skepticism, along with his interest, and shifted his focus to peer into the bottom of his nearly empty mug of ale.
Reid put a coin on the table for the room and led Clara upstairs to freshen up. The second floor had a distinct lean that offered a somewhat precarious nature to their quarters. Still, it appeared stable enough against the storm that raged outside and battered at the shutters.
The room was smaller than anticipated, scarcely big enough to accommodate the narrow bed and the table at its right side. Certainly not enough space to allow Clara privacy while she changed into a dry gown.
They turned and looked at one another.
“I’ll give ye a moment,” he said before she could try to be overly considerate again.
“Ye can stay and change as well.” She bit her lip, her cheeks flushing to a lovely red. “Ye’re also wet. I imagine ye’re also cold. We could put our backs to one another…”
They would be alone in the room, both in a state of undress. The slide of cloth over skin would be more than he could bear. His cock stirred as an enticing fantasy played out in his mind of them turning to one another in a state of partial undress, their mouths meeting in a searing kiss.
Desire swelled hot in his groin.
Damn. This wouldn’t do.
“Nay,” he said abruptly. “I’ll meet ye downstairs. I’ll change later.” Without giving her a chance to protest, he left the room and waited until the bar fall into place on the door before making his way downstairs.
But as he slid into a free seat in the common room, he couldn’t keep his thoughts from drifting to her upstairs as he imagined her stripping out of her sodden kirtle.
Her skin would be damp and cool. And he would love nothing more than to warm her.
With his hands and body, his mouth and tongue—until she was crying out with need.
“What can I get ye?” A woman with a husky voice asked.
Grateful for the distraction, he glanced up to find an older woman grinning down at him. “Two ales and two stews.”
She nodded and sauntered off, catching more than one stare as she went. By the time two steaming trenchers of stew had arrived, Clara was making her way down the stairs. The room stilled as she descended the steps with a grace that couldn’t be ignored.
The brown kirtle she’d worn had been replaced with blue wool that drew one’s attention to her beautiful eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a simple braid with several loose tendrils framing her lovely face.
“Ye’re the bonniest lass I’ve ever seen,” a man said from a nearby table. “Will ye come share my table with me?”
Reid pushed up to his feet.
Clara flushed. “Thank ye, but that isn’t necessary. I already have—”
“Ye’re English?” someone else said.
“Only partly,” she replied with her blended accent.
Reid stopped at her side and put his arm around her shoulders, intending to lead her toward their food.
“After ye’ve had her,” the man who had demanded to know if she was English said, “I’d like a go.”
The room narrowed suddenly so that all Reid could see was the whoreson who had spoken so ill of Clara. Reid rushed forward, his muscles on fire with the need to defend her.
“Nay, Reid,” Clara called, but it was too late. His fist was already connecting with the cur’s weak jaw.
Clara watched in horror as Reid punched the man and lifted his hand back for a second strike, even as the drunk reeled backward.
A woman with a tray of food stepped in front of Reid and cast a chastising look between him and the man who was staggering to remain upright with a hand over his wounded face. “Come on now, lads, if ye want yer ale, ye best be playing along better’n that.”
“What if we want more’n ale?” another man called out.
“Then ye ought to be keeping to yerself with yer best behavior.” She winked and guided Clara toward a rear table, waving away the men who sat there.
“Ye’ll be fine here,” she said in a low voice.
“My mum was English.” She gave a conspiratorial wink before she left and returned swiftly with Reid, who carried their two mugs of ale and two trenchers full of a stew.
The aroma was so rich with the scent of herbs that Clara’s mouth watered.
Reid glared at the table full of men who had called out to Clara when she’d descended the stairs. All appeared to be ignoring him, with the exception of the one he’d struck, who now glared at him with a wad of linen shoved up one nostril.
“Please,” Clara said softly. “Leave him be.”
Reid turned back to Clara, his gaze hard. “After he spoke to ye like that?”
“He’s drunk.”
“That isna an excuse to treat ye as he did.”
“I assure ye, I’ve heard worse,” Clara said to diffuse the situation.